


of love and beauty

by saderaladon



Category: Naruto
Genre: A whole bunch of complicated stuff I am going to address in the notes, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Horror, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Dysfunction, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Two chats, some sex, a lot of tension.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Kakuzu
Kudos: 6





	of love and beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fandom! Long time no see.
> 
> Now for the explanations.  
> This is a snippet from a much larger story that exists solely in my head, but which I told of to my spiritual brother, deciding to write a part of it for him after that as a gift. Which is what this is.  
> Because it is a snippet somewhere from the middle of the story it might not make much sense unless I elucidate some things in here.  
> Also I disregard many canonical elements and just do whatever the heck I want in general, so like if you see something there that I haven't explained or that can't be surmised from the text itself, then you can be sure it came to be through my executive decision to say fuck it and write what I want to write.
> 
> Anyway, things you might need to know to understand what this is supposed to be:  
> a) It is an AU story in which the characters meet prior to this episode, and one of them is a criminal, while another one is still very much a ninja of proper conduct, but for the time being they are working together doing things.  
> b) This isn't the first time they fuck, chat or stand there ready for a fight to break out between the two of them.  
> c) Those threads are a pain in the ass to the host in multiple ways because I say so.
> 
> That's it. I think everything else should be pretty self-explanatory, but if it isn't, I'm always willing to clarify whatever it is that's bugging you.
> 
> Now to the stuff I should say something about but wouldn't know how to tag.
> 
> This text isn't of a comfortable variety. As mentioned in the summary, there is tension and there are complicated feelings in regards to such subjects as pride and self-respect and shame and well, proper fucking conduct? Something like it. Also, there is emotional distress, so it might be a bit unpleasant to read.
> 
> Body horror and sexual dysfunction aspects are pretty mild, and this isn't really a PWP, but.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> English is not my native language and I love to learn from my mistakes, so if there is a fuck up in there, don't hesitate to drop me a line.

We stop for the night by the river when it is not yet sunset.

Kakuzu sorts things in his bag while I start the fire, and then we have a quick silent dinner of rations with some herbs he picked up two days ago added on top. Something about killing the rancid taste.

We throw the sleeping mats on the relatively flat area of the small opening between the trees covered in grass, and I go to wash yesterday's dirty bandages in the river and in the end take off the gloves and the sweatshirt too, keeping my pants and sleeveless T-shirt on and spending half an hour doing laundry.

Kakuzu's sitting on the mat and going through one of his books, taking notes, when I return to our open camp barefoot. I hang the wet clothes on the branches, removing some of the leaves and fixing the bandages with some knots in case it's going to be a windy night. When I glance at Kakuzu again, I see that he's watching me - and probably has been watching me if not the whole time, but for the last minute or so for sure.

The forest is going noiseless as the twilight sets.

Kakuzu puts away the closed book he's holding in his hand, gets up and crosses the distance beween us, looking at me, eyes travelling over the hidden parts of my face, over the fabric of the mask and the headband. There is no mask on him and his hair is loosely braided at his nape without any ties, and also he's taken off his coat I asked him about the last time.

I lift my hand and touch the stitches running through his left cheek. He looks me directly in the eye, face muscles tensing up, and makes the move to kneel.

I catch him by the arm.

"Wait."

A gust of wind passes through the opening, rustling up dry leaves.

He moves his shoulder sharply, throwing my hand off.

"What?" he asks, voice flat.

I move my lips under the mask. We have already talked about it.

"We've already talked about it," he says.

I shrug.

"It doesn't mean I can't talk about it again."

He lets out an irritated sound, briefly turning his face away.

"Alright. I'm listening."

I shift on my feet, shoving my fists deeper into the pockets.

"I like what we do. What _you_ do."

He hums, his lips twitching slightly, the stitches pulling at the skin a bit.

I can feel him breathing through the nose when he takes me all the way down to his throat.

And humming too.

"But I... I don't think of sex as a one-way experience. I don't generally..." Masturbate using my partner. "Engage in something this... irreciprocal."

He huffs out an exhale.

"You said all of that the last time."

I shrug.

"That would be because it's true."

He sighs, more audibly than necessary, taking half a step away from me, changing the pose.

"Well, I don't have anything to add either. I'm more than fine with what we do. What _I_ do. I like doing it."

I look at his face. His jaw is set, chin lifted a bit, expression that of bored waiting.

"Like doing what? Just sucking me off on your knees and leaving afterwards? You like that?"

His postures tightens, shoulders now looking rigid.

There isn't nearly enough space on this opening for either of our arsenals. We'd probably end up fighting in the river.

He spits out another huff of air, shaking his head.

"Yes. Exactly that. I like sucking you off on my knees and leaving. Makes me hot."

I chuckle, sounding somewhat nervous.

"I know," I say, lifting my chin too, rolling my shoulders back. "I can see that." He swallows, stitches on his cheeks betraying the motion. "You don't look like you want to leave after I come."

 _In your mouth_ , I don't add.

Now he inhales, lips pursed, body full of energy ready to be released. He's angry.

"Maybe you should use your other eye then."

Very funny.

"And what does it matter how I look? I said I liked leaving. What do you know? Maybe leaving turns me on the most."

I'm tired.

I sigh, turn away, looking at the river, take my hands out of my pockets, scrape my nape.

"Where do you go?"

He doesn't answer. I turn to him again.

"Where do you go?" I repeat the question. "After I come in your mouth. What do you do in there?"

He gives an abrupt shudder, and I feel a wave of chakra rolling off him, bubbling, razor-edged. Then it breaks off.

He composes himself.

"Play Go." An unpleasant smile on his lips. "Or multiply large numbers. You know what they say, I get off on doing maths."

I'm tired.

"Anyway," he goes on, glancing at our mats and bags. "I'm completely satisfied with what we do, just like I said. Now can we get on with it? Or are we calling it a night?"

I'm really, really tired.

"I'm not."

His body comes to a halt, as if some force yanked him back until he hit a wall.

"What?"

I shrug, putting my hands into the pockets again.

"I'm not satisfied. I want to see what you do after you leave. How you play Go."

He narrows his eyes at me, breath held inside his chest.

"Fuck," he says and turns around, walks to his bag and sits on his heels, going through it.

I see Venus's first lights flickering above the trees.

"Catch," Kakuzu says, throwing something at me.

Then he pulls his sweatshirt off, folding it in half automatically the way they teach you at the academy, unties the waistband with two quick tugs and chucks his pants, stepping out of them and tossing them away with his foot along with shoes.

I look at the thing I hold in my palm. A standard issue tube of shuriken grease.

"What?" Kakuzu asks, standing there naked in the dusk. "I'm not into mutual jerking off or whatever type of social bonding you ANBU types practice in your shared tents."

Then he gestures at the mat his back then touches in two seconds.

I join him in two more.

My nail catches at the threads, when I run my finger down the stitches crossing his inner thigh.  
The layer of air right above his skin vibrates a little.

He's lying on his back on my mat, propped on both elbows, loosely braided hair on his right shoulder, knees bent and spread. I work him open, shuriken grease covering my fingers.

He's tight, but not in a way that suggests something here's unfamiliar or troubling to him. Just tight, not... constricted.

He's relaxed.

And he likes it.

Mutual jerking off in shared tents or fingering your partner in open camps - it's never particularly sensual. There is never any time for anything, eating, sleeping, washing the dirt off the bandages, so why even mention sex. There's rarely kissing, especially when ANBU is concerned. We're too used to being faceless.

It's not similar to sleeping with civilians, it's never that deliberately slow process that includes naps and ice in flavoured drinks and putting on some robes before you go to the bathroom. That process you get caught in when you have a mission that means you'd be dealing with people of the court.

It isn't like that, it's not that break between the periods of running, bowing and carrying out orders that you get when you sleep with a civilian who hugs you at the doorstep early in the morning when it is time for you to go, with a civilian who's never gotten up so early on a regular basis and is sleepy, pressing their lips to the patch of open skin on your face and saying something about festivals they will be having next month and how they'll be glad to see you there.

It isn't that.

You never shake it off like you do when you have sex with people of the court, letting go of the whole night or several of them that you've mostly spent in bed, looking one last time at the palace as you exit it and leaving the whole night or several of them and the person you spent them with at the porch, because that is just a break, it's not your life.

Having sex with others like you isn't similar to it.

It is your life.

He moans, closing his eyes for a second, and there is nothing seductive or hedonistic about it, it's physical.

He simply likes my fingers moving inside of him.

I like his skin.

We spoke of liking things, but liking is not a big part of mutual jerking off in shared tents or fingering your partner in open camps. It is never really about enjoying - yourself or the person you are with.

Not to say that I don't.

I like his skin, the scars and the stitches, the darker shade of it that I still can see even though it's getting late, not only because it is a starry night, but because I'm trained to see things.

I also like his body. I've always liked the bodies of those people who are like me that I was with.  
We're lean and fit, some are a bit more heavy than the others - Kakuzu is - more muscle mass and broader shoulders, more weight around the thigh-bones, more skin to touch.

Not necessarily more scars.

He doesn't have that many, it's mostly threads that my fingers get caught on, the even lines of stitches covering his whole body.

I've always liked touching people who are like me that I was with, and I like touching him.

He likes me doing that too.

"Enough," Kakuzu says, shifting up and lifting his hips, my fingers slipping out of him.

He finds the tube of grease on the mat and throws it at me again.

I nod.

It's not about there being a difference between preparation and actual sex civilians seem to be keen on making.

It's just usually there isn't time for eating, sleeping, washing off the dirt, and even though now there is, we aren't in a hurry, we function as what we were made to be.

Creatures of extensive training and performing duty.

He's tight and much hotter on the inside, as if there is a fire-dragon living in him - just like his mouth, but not as wet and smooth.

He's soft, but tight.

He moans and his breath hitches, when he looks up at me.

The eye contact also has nothing to do with seduction.

When people like me have sex in shared tents or open camps, we either look directly at each other, or don't look at all.

We always hear. We are alert.

It might sound sad to a civilian, but it is about never really knowing who it is you have sex with. Not because you're surrounded by traitors and enemies within your own ranks, but because you were taught to think like that. To feel like that.

You are always wide awake.

And sex - sex with people who are like you - means you're letting them into your space. Inside your chakra.

So you stay vigilant and you look them in the eyes.

It also might sound like something way too intense, but our life, the life of people like me is extreme in general. There's nothing especially acute about having sex.

You're always ready.

"Shit," he says and hisses, neck tensing up, veins bulging.

I repeat the motion of my hips, thrusting into him.

He moans.

This. This is what he likes.

Him swearing... That just must be because he's a missing-nin.

People like me don't usually swear when they're having sex with each other.

Some simply swear all the time, as a style. As good a way as any to avoid losing your mind due to the stress.

But not while having sex, not really. Not while discussing it either, though there aren't much discussions. There isn't much need for them.

Him swearing, him saying anything at all, is an aberration. Something he must have picked up from the people who are not like us he conducts his business with.

We do easily pick up habits.

"Shit," he says again, pushing his hips up to meet my thrusts, fists clenched, lying firmly on the mat, my palms flat on both side of his shoulders.

He isn't trying to say anything to me, he doesn't say _yes_ or _just like that_ or _do it harder_.

I know what he likes. He knows that I know.

He stares up at me, facial muscles tense, stitches on his cheeks deformed, pulling at the skin, eyes set on the hemline of my mask.

I stare at him, moving in him, sharp and rough.

I want to touch the stitches on his chest.

They look like they are about to get torn apart.

They look alive.

_Shit_ wasn't the only thing he said, and stitches weren't all I touched.

"Don't bother," he said, when I took his cock in my hand, soft against the calluses on my fingers. I glanced at him. "I won't get hard."

And then he glanced at the stitches. An explanation. And then he tried to take my hand off himself.

I didn't let him.

I kept my hand on him for a while and he huffed out a breath, sizing me up, and shrugged, and let me touch him.

I guess, he thought that I was stubborn, while I was touching him, running my fingers over the soft skin of his cock.

But I liked touching him, and he liked it too.

The air around his body moves, when I touch the stitches.

I put my left hand on his chest, palm on his pectoral muscle, I rest my weight on my right hand, moving my hips steadily, and I drag my fingers over the stitches, nails catching on the threads.

"Fuck," he says, teeth bared, sinking into his lower lip, stitches on his cheeks ready to snap.

He looks like he's trying to stop himself from doing something, and that is... That is not unusual when people like us are having sex.

 _Feeling_ is dangerous when your body is a storage of weapons and techniques. Stitches aren't the only thing that might snap.

"Fuck, I'm..." he says, no longer staring right at the hemline of my mask. His gaze travels fast over my face. "I didn't... Fuck. Fuck. Sorry for this."

When I open my mouth to ask, the fabric of the mask getting pulled between my lips a little with an inhale that I make, his eyes go black, pitch black, as if tar fills him up, and he lets out a raspy moan, whole body strained, lifting off the ground, neck arching, the threads like strung wires, dark and glowing, almost sentient, and he clenches around me so tight it hurts.

I come inside him, looking at how the strung wires break apart, the stitches snapping, pulling at the skin, cutting into the flesh and turning it inside out, the black, slick, _moving_ fissures forming on his chest, separating it, threads bursting out of them and out of his mouth, lower jaw slack, hanging open, torn off, his body breaking into pieces underneath me.

He falls onto the mat, completely motionless, body in a twisted, unnatural, bizarre shape, mutilated from inside, and I freeze above him, staring down at his unconscious face and trying to catch my breath.

He doesn't look like a corpse, not quite, but.

I manage to move after a minute or so, lifting myself off him and sitting on my feet next to him.  
I spend two or three more studying his passed out form.

He is passed out. Also, he's not breathing. I hear no heartbeat.

I've seen enough dead bodies to know that he isn't one, there is just something off about him right now, it isn't a cadaver lying there on my mat beside me, but it is something... something I have never seen before.

And there is... something. Inside of him.

It isn't moving, not exactly, his body is completely still, not rigid, not relaxed, just still, like a smooth surface of a lake, and I can see the threads he used to do what people like us do in the dark cracks splitting his chest, immobile, but not calm, not peaceful. Dormant.

It isn't something I have ever seen and it might sound scary to a person who hasn't done what people like us do, but I am not that person.

I've just seen him turn into a unmoving pile of flesh and threads and I've come inside him.

I don't know how long I sit there looking at him before I finally get up, shivering a few times. My face feels hot under the mask, but the rest of me is chilly. I pick up the flask from the ground next to the fireplace and walk towards the river.

I pull my mask off, drink, gulping down the water, scooping it up with my palms, I wash my face, rake wet fingers through my hair and fill up the flask. I wipe the water with my T-shirt and pull the mask back up.

When I return to the camp, Kakuzu is still lying on the mat.

I sit down next to him again, take a few more sips of water through the mask and put the flask down.

That something might be at rest, but it is always watchful.

I lift my hand and touch one of the fissures fracturing his inactive chest.

Then that something in him stirs, and he inhales loudly, the sounds of several shocks thumping inside him reaching my ears.

The dark, slick, glowing thing disappears from his eyes, and his eyelashes flutter. The threads start crawling.

"Oh," he says, clears his throat and licks his lips. "Good morning."

He still lies there in that strange, inhuman pose, not trying to take a more comfortable position, not even moving his head, neck twisted awkwardly.

"Yo."

He coughs, laughs a little.

"I've been wondering if I accidentally killed you."

He licks his lips again.

"That happen to you often?" he asks, a corner of his mouth twitching, his jaw still hanging open. "I'm fine."

The threads are withdrawing back into his body, the stitches gradually reappearing as they go. I follow the process with my eyes.

"Does this... Does _this_ happen to you often?"

He coughs again, his chest heaving, then tries to move his head, jerking it up only for it to fall back onto the mat.

He's paralyzed.

"Every time."

The threads that've burst out of his mouth are moving too.

"Every time you---"

"Every time I come, yes."

He doesn't close his eyes when I look at his face.

"You can't move, can you?"

He doesn't answer for a while, breathing audibly.

"No."

"And how long till you---"

He tries shrugging, and when he fails - smirking.

"About twenty minutes. Ten more before the numbness goes away."

My mouth is dry again.

"That..." I start. "That might... pose a problem in your line of work."

He laughs once, then coughs. I see his fingers twitch, his bent leg jerking.

"Well, you know," he says, glancing up at me. "From what I gather, you've got a dead dude's eye that's killing you in your eyesocket, so... All fashionable things have a price tag on them, don't they?"

I don't respond.

I watch him trying to move again, fingers scraping the mat, legs sliding open, he manages to lift his head for a few seconds, muscles going taut.

"Fuck," he says, falling on the mat, head lolling to the side. "My apologies. Didn't plan for you to see this."

I choke a little on my own dry tongue and cough too, pulling down the mask and taking a large swig from the flask.

"You said it happens every time you come."

He glances at me again, breathing heavily.

"It does. I didn't plan to come."

I wipe my mouth and look at his, threads moving, recreating the stitches on his cheeks, tying his jaws together, the mass that's dangling off his lips squirming.

I shake my head.

"You didn't plan to come."

He closes his eyes and lies there without saying anything for a while. He spits out a scornful sound, then sighs.

"You know what else _poses a problem_ in my line of work?" he asks, voice low, even. "You know what really sucks?"

"What?"

"When I come to my senses and there's nobody in the room with me anymore."

I sit there silent, watching him getting reassembled.

I haven't got anything to say.

He coughs, licks his lips.

"Are you thirsty?"

He breathes in and out two times before he looks at me.

"Yes."

I pick up the flask and he tries to sit up, grabbing at it. His body falls heavily onto the mat. He chuckles.

"I guess I'll have to wait a little more."

The Venus's shining brightly on the dark, pitch black sky.

I slip a palm under his nape, lifting his head, and press the neck of the flask to his lips, parting the quivering threads with my fingers.

He hesitates, the air around his body vibrating, and then he drinks. I help him to lie down, capping the flask.

I put it on the ground next to us and bend, taking the slithering threads into my mouth, licking and sucking on them, in constant motion against my tongue, my lips brushing against his.

I can hear that he holds his breath.

"Ha," he says, once I straighten up and look at his face, pulling up my mask. "You're a bit of a pervert, aren't you, Copy Ninja?"

I cover him with a blanket and lie down on his mat, less than a meter away from him, hearing how he pulls his bag closer, tucking it under his head, half an hour later in my sleep.

In the morning we continue running.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________


End file.
